


Turn Away From Truth

by Darksilvercat



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angsty Schmoop, Bottoming from the Top, Castiel is a goddamn BAMF, Dean Winchester Has Issues, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Minor Violence, Porn With Plot, Secret Angels Dean/Castiel Fic Exchange, Whump, this is so embarrassing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-08
Updated: 2012-08-08
Packaged: 2017-11-12 14:09:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/491988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darksilvercat/pseuds/Darksilvercat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“You are a good man Dean. Someday you will come to believe that.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turn Away From Truth

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to LiveJournal on February 12th 2009. Written for strangeandcharm as part of the Secret Angels fic exchange at deancastiel.
> 
> Prompts:  
>  _1\. Anything involving a whumped, helpless Castiel or a similarly whumped and helpless Dean.  
>  2\. Anything involving Castiel having to take his coat off, roll his sleeves up and get down to some sort of business (porny or otherwise, I don't mind, as long as he's INTENSE with it).   
> 3\. Dean and Castiel having to look after Sam for some reason.   
> 4\. Castiel smiting like a smiting mother-smiter in order to save Dean. Hell yeah!_

Something has gone horribly wrong. 

Dean isn’t sure when or where exactly, but he’s fairly certain that Sam’s ingenious plan to break into a museum in the dead of night in order to investigate a rumoured haunting did not, at any point, involve either brother getting chained to the ceiling in the middle of the ‘Eastern Asia’ gallery. 

His head hurts like hell, so he’s really, _really_ hoping that the black-eyed figures standing around he and Sam are just a hallucination. 

The manacles around his wrists are pretty solid, gouging into his skin in a way that guarantees huge bruises when he gets loose, and attached to a long chain that loops over some hook that’s randomly hanging from the ceiling of the gallery. No doubt the museum used it to hang dinosaur bones or a giant model boat, or possibly a life sized model of a blue whale at some point. 

He tries tugging the chain free, but he doesn’t have a whole lot of leverage. His arms have been pulled up and over his head and he can already feel the muscles in his shoulders tearing from the awkward angle. His feet barely reach the floor, and he’s forced to stand on his tiptoes to ease some of the strain on his shoulders. 

To his left, Sam groans softly as he regains consciousness. Dean swings round on the tips of his toes, the chains around his wrists clinking as he misjudges the motion and ends up doing a full three spins before he comes to a stop facing his brother. 

“Sam? Sam, are you with me? You ok?” he demands. There’s a pretty nasty gash on the side of Sam’s head, but he nods slowly, surveying their surroundings. 

“Dean, what’s going on?” he asks, his tone a little thick and fuzzy. “Were we attacked?” 

“I’m a little hazy on the details, but I seem to recall being thrown down the stairs,” Dean replies. “And that headache you’re no doubt feeling is probably thanks to being clubbed round the head with a bone from the dinosaur exhibit.” 

“Fossil,” Sam says. 

“What?” 

“They aren’t bones, they’re fossils.” 

“Dude we’ve been knocked out and chained up, and that’s all you’ve got?” Dean demands incredulously. 

Sam pulls a face and glances round. “What am I supposed to say Dean? I don’t know what’s going on, why don’t you ask them?” he suggests, inclining his head towards the demons. 

“Ok.” Dean swings round and fixes the demons with his usual look of unreserved loathing. “Hey, any of you black-eyed freaks wanna tell us what’s going on here?” 

Three hulking male demons just stare back at him, but the small blond chick steps forward, eyes flicking to human. 

“Isn’t it obvious? You’re here to be tortured horribly and then killed,” she informs them. 

Dean stares for a moment, then shrugs as best he can with his arms chained above his head. 

“Well that’s nothing new. And who the hell are you?” 

The girl presses a hand to her chest in mock-hurt. “You mean you don’t recognise me? I gotta say, I’m a little hurt. After all we’ve been through together I had hoped you two chuckleheads would at least have the common decency to-” 

“Meg,” Sam growls, and it’s not a question. 

Dean flicks a stunned look towards his brother. It doesn’t surprise him that Sam would figure it out so fast. What does surprise him though, is the sheer depth of hatred and fear in Sam’s voice, the loathing written plainly on his brother’s features. For a brief moment he can’t figure out why Sam is reacting so strongly but then it all comes flooding back, and dear God how could he ever have forgotten? 

Meg merely smirks and places her hands on her hips. 

“Oh you have _got_ to be kidding me,” Dean groans, trying to hide the hatred in his voice, not wanting to grace this black-eyed demonic bitch with the reaction she so obviously expects. “What the hell do you want?” 

Irritation flickers across her face as she strides forward, raising a hand and slapping him- _hard_ \- and it hurts but he laughs anyway, because _damn_ if this isn’t a blast from the past. A time before hell, before the apocalypse, when demons were just out for blood and not the end of the world. 

“I already told you Dean. Pay attention,” Meg is saying, but he’s barely listening because for some stupid reason, he doesn’t care. He’s chained up and helpless in a room full of demons, facing the prospect of inevitable torture, and he’s not even a little bit scared. Because really, nothing she pulls on him in the near future could possibly compare to thirty years of hell. 

Besides. They’ve exorcised this bitch twice already. As far as threatening enemies are concerned, he can’t even begin to work out how far down the list Meg has slipped. Amazing to think they once considered her to be their number two enemy. 

How things change. 

So he presses his luck, giving her his most condescending smirk. “What, that’s it? No seals, no apocalyptic agenda?” 

“I don’t care about any of that crap. I just want revenge,” Meg snaps. 

“Why, because we sent your demonic ass back to hell? Cry more,” Dean sneers, and Meg slaps him again, this time so hard that it sends him spinning, unable to balance as the chains twist around themselves and raise him up, stretching his shoulders until he thinks his bones might just pop out of their sockets. 

“I thought so,” he gasps, as his motion slows and he begins to rotate the other way, the chains unwinding and lowering him, just enough to ease the strain on his shoulders, but not enough to soothe the fire that burns his twisted muscles. “You’re just butthurt that we exorcised your sorry ass twice,” he continues recklessly. 

Meg eyes him with a look of utter loathing before leaning in close. Uncomfortably close, and what the hell is it with demons and angels invading his personal space? He flinches back as far as the chains will allow. 

“You know Dean, when I heard you were coming to join us I couldn’t wait to have my turn at you,” she confides. Her face twists with contempt, making the pretty blond she’s riding look surprisingly ugly. “But that bitch Lilith had other plans. Forty years and I never once got to hear you screaming. I feel like I missed out.” 

“Would have been nice to see a familiar face,” Dean retorts carelessly. 

“I bided my time. You know Hell isn’t quite the prison it used to be. Coming and going has been a whole lot easier since you boys opened up that gateway.” She runs a hand up his chest almost lovingly. “It took me a while to find you of course, but now here we are, just like old times.” Her hand moves up into his hair, and she fists it tightly, yanking his head back. “I’ll have you screaming soon enough.” 

“Go ahead and try,” he snarls defiantly. “I’ve had a lot of practice at this.” 

She pulls back and regards him for a moment, examining him closely. “You’re right,” she nods slowly. “But I happen to know exactly how to hurt you.” 

He tenses in anticipation, but she whirls round, away from him and for a moment he can’t figure out what she’s doing, but then her left leg snaps out and kicks into the back of Sam’s knees. Taken by surprise Sam loses his balance and collapses forward, but the chains don’t let him go far and he cries out in pain as Dean hears the unpleasant clicking sound of bones being popped out of place. 

“Sonofabitch!” Dean swears angrily, wrestling with his own chains as Meg swings back to him with a giant shit-eating grin. 

“I’m gonna kill him Dean,” she declares confidently. “I’m gonna make you watch while I break every bone in his body. How does that sound?” 

Dean replies with a furious tirade of curses that only makes her grin wider as she turns back to Sam. 

The younger Winchester struggles back to his feet, his face contorted with pain even as he fixes Meg with a fierce glare. 

“And you, Sam,” she continues, running her hand up his chest, “I’ve heard all kinds of things about you lately. I hear you‘ve been screwing some demon-whore. Tell me, how was it?” 

“It wasn’t too bad,” Sam replies tersely. “It certainly wasn’t as vomit-inducing as the time you tried to kiss me.” 

Dean inwardly applauds his brother’s defiance, even as Meg lashes out again, this time stamping down on Sam’s left ankle, and the snapping sound that follows is almost as appalling to Dean as the cry that Sam gives when he once again collapses forward, putting yet more strain on his dislocated shoulders. 

Somehow Sam manages to find his feet again, and this time Meg goes for a kneecap. 

Bone cracks, and Sam pitches forward yet again, but this time he can’t regain his feet, both legs dragging uselessly as he swings back and forth by his chains. 

“Come on Sam,” Meg taunts. “All those demons you’ve sent back to hell with your powers, and look at you now. You’re pathetic.” 

“You….have…. no…. idea,” Sam gasps, his body twitching helplessly as he tries desperately to find relief from the pain. 

“I know you couldn’t save Dean. After everything he’s done for you, you finally had a chance to repay him, and you screwed it up.” 

“Shut up bitch,” Dean growls, but she ignores him completely. 

“You just stood and watched while Hellhounds ripped him apart.” She smiles wickedly. “I wish I could have been there to see your face.” 

Sam’s head snaps up, fury etched across his features as his eyes narrow and he fixes Meg with a look of fierce determination. Meg twitches and begins to retch, and for half a second Dean catches himself thinking that _holy crap, this might just work_ , until one of the other demons steps forward and whacks Sam round the head. 

His concentration broken, Sam sags forward, and Meg deals him a blow hard enough to crack ribs. 

Sam’s initial cry quickly dies out as the pain truly sets in. Every breath drawn in produces an agonised whimper, and Dean knows, God he _knows_ exactly what Sam is feeling, has felt pain like that and infinitely worse in the past forty years. Yet even as he rails against Meg with another round of useless insults some tiny, detached part of his brain can’t help thinking that she’s doing this _wrong_. 

Taking Sam’s legs and putting a steady strain on his shoulders and chest gives him a constant pain to get lost in, something to focus on over every other pain she induces. A truly skilled torturer would know that it’s not just the pain, but the anticipation, the fear of pain that breaks a victim. 

The thought sickens him, but he uses it anyway. 

“You’re going about this all wrong,” he growls, adding “Bitch.” for good measure. 

Meg turns back to him and he feels a sick sense of triumph at the surprise in her eyes. 

“Is that right?” she demands, moving towards him and- _oh thank God_ \- away from Sam. “And what do you know about torture? Oh, that’s right.” She tilts her head to one side and smiles so knowingly that it turns his stomach. “You were making quite the name for yourself in the Pit weren’t you? Maybe we should trade tips, would you like that? Do you want to tell me the best way to torture your baby brother?” 

“Fuck you,” he spits out. 

“Oh get off your high horse. You think just because an angel drags your pathetic soul out of hell that makes you better than us? Because it doesn’t Dean, it really doesn’t. You’re no better than I am. Hell, given enough time, you could have been _worse_.” 

There’s really nothing he can say to that. Each word carves a fresh hole in Dean’s soul. He knows it’s the truth, he’s as much a monster now as the creatures he hunts, but watching Meg hurting his brother slams this fact home in a shattering new way; because dear _God_ , he would have done the same, and much worse if Sam had been put on the rack in front of him, and he would have enjoyed every damn second of it. 

He looks beyond her at the other three demons, still watching the scene unfolding before them with a look of silent satisfaction, and remembers how demons had first reacted to his escape from Hell. They had been almost afraid of him. 

No, not him. The thing that rescued him. Castiel. 

Dean had almost let himself believe it, for a short while. Even though the angel had threatened him once- threatened _Sam_ once- even though Castiel had stated in no uncertain terms that he was not going to watch over Dean; he had somehow come to trust in the angel, to believe that maybe, just maybe, there was something about him that deserved saving. 

Until Anna. And though he doesn’t regret it- couldn’t ever regret helping an innocent woman- he can’t escape the crushing sense of loss and disappointment in the angels. In Castiel. Hasn’t seen or heard so much as a whisper of wings since that little incident and it’s been two months now, and if he didn’t believe it before, he knows now that Heaven wants nothing to do with him. 

His expression must have betrayed his thoughts because Meg gives a self-satisfied smirk and steps back, as though to survey her work so far. Sam physically broken and dangling limply from his chains, Dean broken emotionally, not that he wasn’t before but he’d been doing a good job of avoiding it until now. 

“Where’s your angel now Dean?” she jeers. 

“I don’t know, but I really hope he’s off killing some of you sons of bitches,” Dean retaliates, refusing to give her the pleasure of hearing him admit defeat. 

“I guess you really don’t matter that much after all,” Meg grins. “I have to say, I’m a little disappointed. When you made your great escape people really got scared, they started thinking you were some huge threat to us. But you’re nothing. Just a weak, pathetic human who let down his father, his brother, and heaven itself. I mean you really redefine failure.” 

Dean shuts his eyes and stays silent, letting Meg’s judgement wash over him, accepting it for the simple truth that it is. In the ringing silence that follows, all he can hear is the insistent clinking of chains; Sam’s laboured breathing, and- 

_Wings_.

Dean stops breathing, his eyes flying open and scanning the gallery frantically, not daring to believe it until he sees it. 

Castiel is standing at the far end of the gallery. 

It takes Meg approximately three seconds to notice the angel’s appearance, confusion seeping into her expression as she follows Dean’s gaze, and then her look transforms from victory smirk to _oh-shit_ grimace in less than a heartbeat and Dean can’t help but grin even though he can’t really believe Castiel is here. 

That an angel of the Lord is saving his sorry ass yet again, even though he doesn’t deserve it. 

And he thinks it’s only a matter of time before the illusion breaks, but Castiel is moving now, advancing slowly towards the demons, his eyes blazing. He radiates power and authority, the air seemingly filled with electricity that makes Dean’s skin prickle and his hair stand on end. He glances at Sam to see if he is aware of their imminent rescue, and is both relieved and concerned to see that his brother has slipped into unconsciousness. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” Meg scowls accusingly, as though they had made an arrangement and Castiel had broken it. 

“Did you truly think you could attack a man marked by angels; and not suffer the consequences?” Castiel returns. 

Dean watches, stunned into absolute silence as Castiel shrugs off his trenchcoat, laying it carefully to one side. The gesture is so alien on him that Dean wants to laugh. Only Castiel looks so focused, so intent on whatever it is he plans to do that Dean is half-afraid the angel will end up smiting _him_ if he interrupts. It takes him a second to register that the dark blazer he remembers Castiel wearing previously is gone- _God only knows where_ \- as Castiel continues forward with deadly intent. 

Meg stands frozen for an instant, then steps back abruptly, pushing Dean in front of her, pulling a knife from the back of her jeans and pressing it against his throat. 

“I’ll kill him,” she threatens forcefully. 

“You were going to kill me anyway,” Dean points out, but Meg tightens her grip and presses the knife-blade into skin enough to draw a thin line of blood, and he wisely decides to shut up and let Castiel deal with the situation. 

“You will do no such thing,” Castiel replies calmly. 

“Screw you,” Meg hisses, and places a hand on Dean’s forehead, pulling his head back and tightening her grip on the knife, and then Castiel is right there beside them, his hand closing over the blade itself to stop it slicing into Dean’s throat. 

_Holy shit_ , Dean thinks, _I didn’t even see him move_. 

Meg struggles for a brief second, but Castiel is much stronger, he wrenches the knife, the blade slipping through the blood drawn from his hand, and then his other hand comes across, curled into a fist that rushes past Dean’s ear and slams into Meg’s face. She staggers back and he drops the hand to her knife-wielding arm, digging his fingers into a pressure point that forces her to release the weapon. 

Behind them, the other three demons turn tail and flee towards the exit, but the door slams shut before they get there, though Castiel hasn’t so much as glanced in their direction. He’s somewhat preoccupied with pulling Meg away from her Dean-shaped shield and pressing a hand to her forehead. 

Meg struggles frantically, but Castiel’s grip is unbreakable as he burns her into oblivion. 

The remaining demons seem to reach the conclusion that the best defence is a good offence, and all three charge Castiel at once. 

Dean shouts a warning although he’s pretty damn sure the angel doesn’t need one as he drops the girl’s body to the ground and turns blindingly fast, reaching out and grabbing the first demon, using the momentum of its charge to swing the thing around and hurl it against the far wall. The second comes at him from the left and he seizes it by the collar, yanking it towards him like a dog on a leash. The third attempts to come to a screeching halt but Castiel moves to meet it, slamming an open palm into the thing’s chest and pushing it back against a wall. He spins the one already in his grip round and slams it up beside its companion. They struggle beneath his hands as he presses a palm to each forehead and burns them out simultaneously. 

Dean stares, vaguely aware that his mouth is hanging open in a stunned ‘oh’ as Castiel lets the two empty meatsuits slide to the floor. 

The angel turns and advances on the final demon, and the air around him crackles with some kind of strange electricity as he moves. The demon shrinks back, hunkering down against the far wall as though hoping it will suddenly dissolve. 

Castiel reaches down and slips a hand under the creature’s chin, forcing its head up to meet his eyes. The demon trembles beneath his touch, wide-eyed and helpless as the angel presses his palm to its forehead. 

The demon screams as it burns away.

*****

A ringing silence settles over the gallery as Castiel stands with his back to Dean. The air seems to lighten somehow, the strange electricity fading away, and Dean realises the angel is reigning in his power, bringing it back under control. 

When Castiel finally turns to meet gaze, he looks no different than he had two months ago after Alastair nearly killed him. Tired and sad as he surveys the gallery, and Dean realises that he doesn’t know if the bodies around them are bodies because the demon’s rode them too hard or because Castiel’s handy little trick (no pun intended) was as lethal to humans as it was to demons. 

Castiel moves towards him and Dean opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again. There are a thousand things he needs to say, _thank you_ being the most important, but the words get lost on the way to his mouth and what comes out is “Where the hell have you been?” and it sounds much angrier than he means it to. 

Castiel comes to a halt inches from Dean- _there’s that personal space thing again_ \- and considers him silently, while Dean mentally slaps himself silly. What a freakin’ stupid thing to say to an angel, especially the angel who just saved his ass. But Castiel reserves judgement, his only response is to reach up and touch the chains that bind Dean’s wrists, causing them to spring open. Dean’s arms drop and he hisses in pain as the wrecked muscles in his shoulder scream in protest at the sudden movement. He stares at the angel for a moment, trapped by those unreadable blue eyes, then chains clink as Sam shifts, and his attention is instantly and wholly diverted to his brother. 

“Sam,” he rasps out, moving to Sam’s side and placing his hands on Sam’s neck, ignoring the pain it causes in his own arms as he tilts his brother’s head back. “Dude wake up,” he urges. 

Castiel moves up beside them and reaches up to touch Sam’s chains. 

“Wait,” Dean mumbles, trying to get a grip on his brother so Sam won’t just fall to the floor, but Castiel’s hand has already touched the locks, and Sam falls forward. 

Dean grabs and misses, but Castiel is there, sliding his arms under Sam’s armpits and lowering the younger Winchester to the ground with surprising gentleness. He shifts his grip on Sam’s unconscious form, one arm across Sam’s back beneath the shoulders, the other moving under Sam’s knees, and then the angel stands, lifting Sam Winchester as if he weighs next to nothing. 

“Follow me,” he orders Dean. 

“We need to do something about all this,” Dean observes, indicating the corpses and chains with a sweep of his hand, regretting it instantly as the muscles in his shoulder object to the movement. 

“We need to leave,” Castiel corrects him calmly, leading the way towards the exit. Dean hastens after him. 

The angel guides him down to the back entrance of the museum where the brothers came in, and Dean is halfway towards the Impala when Castiel’s words stop him. 

“You are in no condition to drive,” he points out, and Dean pulls up short. The angel has a point; he can barely grip a steering wheel, let alone handle complex manoeuvres like shifting gear. 

“I’m not leaving her here,” he argues regardless, but Castiel fixes him with a gaze that clearly says _this is not up for debate_ , and continues away from the museum. 

Dean casts an apologetic look at his car and follows the angel, wondering where they’re going. Castiel leads him halfway up the street, then turns into a dark alleyway. Dean follows cautiously as Castiel approaches a doorway. As they draw near he hears a soft click from the lock, and the door swings sedately open. He trails Castiel into the building, through what looks like a kitchen, although it’s difficult to tell in the dark. Then into a dimly lit corridor, and Dean realises they’re in the service side of a hotel. 

The angel leads him up to a room on the first floor, and once again the door swings quietly open as they approach. Once inside, Castiel lays Sam on one of the beds while Dean gropes around for a light switch and shuts the door behind them. 

“See to your brother,” Castiel instructs him. “I will return shortly.” And with that he’s gone, blinking out of existence as if he was never there to begin with. 

Dean rubs a hand over his face and sighs, moving towards his unconscious brother. Sam needs a hospital really, he can deal with dislocated shoulders and a blow to the head and cracked ribs, but Sam’s ankle is twisted at an impossible angle and his knee is swelling to the point where it’s stretching his jeans. 

But Castiel seems to think that this is the best place for them, and the angel has just saved their lives, so Dean’s willing to have a little trust in the angel. He perches on the edge of Sam’s bed and runs his hands over his brother’s left shoulder. Gripping it tightly he makes a silent thank you that Sam is unconscious, then heaves the joint back into place, ignoring the pain that flares in his own shoulders as he does so. 

He repeats the action with Sam’s right shoulder, then goes in search of ice, water and towels. By the time he returns, Castiel is already back and sitting beside Sam. The angel has rolled up his sleeves and pressed his fingertips to the younger Winchester’s ankle, the other hand resting on the swollen knee. He is staring at his own hands with a look of intense concentration, and Dean’s chest tightens as he realises what is going on. 

Gratitude and relief and fear and doubt and guilt crashing over him in waves as Castiel moves his hands to Sam’s ribs, and then his shoulders, before rising from the bed and turning to face him. 

Dean lowers his eyes, unable to meet the angel’s piercing gaze. 

“Your brother will be fine,” Castiel tells him, though Dean had suspected as much anyway. 

“Thanks,” he mumbles softly, meaning for everything, but he’s not sure if Castiel gets that so he repeats himself, forcing his eyes up to meet the angel’s stare so that Castiel will see the sincerity in his own gaze. “Thank you. You saved our lives.” 

Castiel inclines his head, somehow managing to say, _you’re welcome, it’s okay, apology accepted_ , all in that slight movement. 

“You should get some rest also,” the angel says. 

Dean shrugs, then winces as he remembers that his own hurts haven’t been healed. But he doesn’t want to ask, so he moves to sit on the couch beneath the window. “I’m not tired. Besides, I don’t sleep much anymore.” 

To his surprise the angel moves to sit beside him. 

“Your nightmares?” he asks. 

Dean hesitates, uncertain about just how much he wants to share with the angel. But Castiel has just saved his life- saved _Sam’s_ life- and he’s asking, so Dean tells. 

“I told Sam you know. Told him everything,” he says, avoiding the angel’s gaze. “Thought it might help.” He sighs, sinking back into the couch and rubbing a hand across his eyes. “They’re just getting worse.” 

The angel’s touch is feather-light on his shoulder, and he feels a glorious rush of warmth spreading through his damaged muscles. 

“I know. I’m sorry,” Castiel says softly. 

Dean holds back a bitter laugh. “Don’t be. You’re the one who pulled me out of there.” He looks up, actually wanting to look the angel in the eye and express his gratitude, a thank you long overdue, but to his surprise Castiel has bowed his head. 

“I’m also the one who threatened to return you,” he notes, sounding almost sad. 

Dean tenses, remembering all too well the fear that Castiel’s words had instilled, the fear he still feels every time he comes face to face with the angel. That conversation always serves to remind Dean of where he really stands in all this chaos. He is expendable. If the angels grow tired of him, they’ll throw him back without so much as a moment’s hesitation. Sometimes he almost forgets that this whole ‘being alive’ thing is temporary. 

Castiel removes his hand from Dean’s right shoulder and reaches across to touch the left. Whether by accident or design, his fingers fit into place over the scar beneath Dean’s shirt, and Dean feels a rush of fear. 

“I should not have said what I did,” Castiel continues softly, and Dean lets out a breath he didn’t even realise he was holding. “I should have been more patient with you. I’m truly sorry for that.” 

The angel raises his eyes again, and Dean looks away, fighting back a wave of fear and anger. Castiel’s words don’t mean anything. He’s Heaven’s bitch and he knows it. 

“Why me?” he whispers suddenly. The question that’s been plaguing him since he escaped Hell. He’s asked Castiel before, but the angel has never answered. 

“I don’t know,” Castiel admits, his voice low and serious. “When I was commanded to rescue you, I assumed you would be special somehow. That maybe you had some gift or power that would be of use to us.” 

“So you nearly deafened me, I remember,” Dean replies, and he smiles, has to smile, even though he knows Castiel was wrong because it’s moments like these- when all his shortcomings are made painfully obvious- that he has to shrug them off and laugh about it or else the weight of his own failures will crush him. He isn’t special, he has no gift or power. Hell, he’s hindered the angels more than he’s helped them so far. 

“Now I think I’m beginning to understand,” Castiel continues smoothly. “You are not gifted. You are mortal. You laugh, you cry. You feel guilt and regret, fear and pain, love and joy. Your father made you into a soldier, your compassion for others made you a great hunter. You are willing to give your life to save people. You truly put all others first. You are a good man.” 

The angel’s hand trails up from its position on Dean’s shoulder, settling into place on Dean’s neck. The touch sends a rush of warmth through Dean and he leans into it, relishing the contact, the simple pleasure of a comforting touch without any expectation from him. He allows himself that moment, a brief moment of knowing that someone cares, before pulling back and breaking the contact, already feeling guilty. 

“Not anymore,” he replies, because Castiel has got it so _very_ wrong. “I’m not anything special.” His tone hardens with self-disgust. “And I’m certainly not a good man. You don’t need to feed me any of that crap. I’ll do your dirty work and when it’s all over, you can send me back to the Pit.” 

Part of him, a tiny, self-centred little part of him wants Castiel to deny it. To assure him that he is saved and free to live his life and die a proper death this time, and go wherever the hell all good hunters go when they pass. 

The angel merely drops his gaze, unable to meet Dean’s eyes. 

“I can’t make any promises,” he says softly, and Dean’s heart twists painfully. Castiel sighs and moves to sit on the edge of the coffee table, facing Dean and so close that his legs are pressed against the couch. He clasps his hands together and rests them in his lap, leaning forward to study Dean intensely. 

Dean licks his lips uncomfortably and looks at the angel’s crooked tie, his unbuttoned collar, Castiel’s hands, his own hands, anywhere but that unsettling blue-eyed gaze. 

“Dean, you don’t understand,” Castiel says after a long moment. “Throughout history, the course of mankind has been shaped by certain people. Joan of Arc. Christopher Columbus. Joseph Stalin. These people were just human. It’s not about being gifted, or being flawless. It’s about humanity. And you, Dean, are so very human. You _are_ special.” 

Dean snorts disbelievingly. He can feel Castiel’s eyes on him, willing him to look up, but he can’t bring himself to do so because he thinks if he sees truth reflected in the angel’s eyes he might actually start to believe it. 

“Why? I’m not a leader, I’m not a saint. All I know is how to hunt,” he protests. 

“You are more than you realise.” Castiel turns his gaze to his own hands, studying them as though he’s never seen them before. “I told you I had doubts. Our orders have sometimes been questionable. But you chose to save that town on Halloween. You protected Anna even though you knew nothing about her, you were willing to return to Hell to keep her safe. You were in hell Dean.” He looks up, and Dean drops his gaze instantly, still unwilling to meet the angel’s eyes. “Hell is meant to break people, and yet you held out with no hope for thirty years. And now you make no excuses for your actions. You accept responsibility when you do wrong, and you strive to prevent wrong being done to others. At a time when we must make sacrifices for the greater good, you hold true to your beliefs.” 

Castiel reaches out again, sliding his fingers along Dean’s jaw, tilting Dean’s head until he has no choice but to meet the angel’s unflinching stare. Their eyes lock, and Dean draws in a deep, steadying breath. It would be so easy to let himself get lost in that look of trust and respect. 

He doesn’t deserve it, doesn’t deserve any of it, not the touch, not the comfort, and certainly not the angel who dragged him out of hell and trusted him with his own secrets. 

“If you are a part of my Father’s plan, then I have faith in that plan,” Castiel says, his voice a low murmur against the raging storm in Dean’s mind. His hand moves from Dean’s jaw to his neck. “I should thank you for that.” The angel’s voice is barely more than a whisper as he leans forward, pressing his lips to Dean’s forehead in some kind of holy benediction. 

Dean raises a hand to push the angel away, not wanting to accept the comfort and gratitude that is being offered. _Not worthy, not worthy, not worthy_ , his mind chants, but then Castiel places his other hand on Dean’s shoulder, fitting it to the scar beneath his shirt as if by instinct, and Dean’s heart clenches. The hand that had been intended to push at the angel’s shoulder grips the back of his neck instead without any conscious thought, and in that instant, time seems to stand still. All the guilt, the shame and horror and fear disappear, leaving him with a sensation of peace and comfort that he can’t bring himself to push away. When Castiel draws back Dean lifts his head and finds himself trapped by the angel’s intense blue eyes, filled with trust and compassion, mere inches from his own. The angel’s breath ghosts across his face, cool and clean-smelling, and the hand on his shoulder tightens slightly. 

Half of Dean wants to hold on to the feeling of comfort he’s just experienced, the other half wants to destroy the angel’s faith in him, to prove that he isn’t worthy of it. Before he even realises what he’s doing he leans up, pulls the angel down and closes the short distance between them, pressing his lips to Castiel’s. 

For a brief moment neither of them moves, then Dean surges forward, crushing their mouths together, fuelled by a need he barely recognises. He knows he should be pulling back already, bracing himself for whatever holy wrath is about to strike him, but he can’t tear himself away from the exhilarating sensation of Castiel’s lips against his. 

It takes another moment for Castiel to respond, and it isn’t what Dean expects. The angel leans in, deepening the kiss and opening his mouth to Dean. 

Dean’s tongue sweeps into Castiel’s mouth, exploring, tasting, drinking in the sensations of peace and warmth and comfort. The angel tastes _fresh_ , there is no other word Dean can think of to describe it, an intoxicating combination of mint and ice and cool springtime air. Castiel allows him a moment before pressing forward, pushing his own tongue into Dean’s mouth and kissing him back just as hard. 

Dean pushes against the angel, battling for dominance until Castiel sinks back, allowing Dean to move forward and pin him to the coffee table. He drags one hand away from the angel’s face and down, over his chest, fingertips running along the blue tie before coming to rest on Castiel’s hip. He pushes his other hand into the angel’s hair, and slides one knee up onto the table between Castiel’s legs, pressing into his groin. 

Castiel gasps, breaking the kiss for an instant, and reality crashes down on Dean like a ton of bricks. He snatches his hands back as if burned, tearing himself away and pressing himself into the couch. 

“I’m sorry,” he gasps, staring at the angel as Castiel sits upright. “God I’m so sorry.” 

“Why?” Castiel’s voice is as calm as ever, and if Dean thinks he hears any disappointment then it can only be because Castiel is upset by what he’s done, not that he stopped doing it. 

“I shouldn’t have, I’m sorry, I don’t want-” 

“Dean.” 

“You’d fall,” Dean breathes desperately. 

Understanding flickers in Castiel’s eyes. “I would not. Besides, now is hardly the time for us to shorten our numbers further by turning on our own.” 

“But Anna-” 

“Anna wanted mortality. I do not,” Castiel replies firmly. 

Dean shakes his head frantically. 

“I can’t. We can’t. I don’t-” 

“What? Deserve it?” Castiel’s tone hardens slightly. “Haven’t we been through this?” He moves forward, pressing his hands down on Dean’s thighs and leaning closer to the hunter. “You are worthy Dean.” 

“No, I’m not,” Dean insists. 

Something flashes in Castiel’s eyes, his hands tightening on Dean’s denim-clad thighs, and for a brief moment Dean is certain he is about to kiss him again or kill him. Then the angel lets out a slow sigh and leans back. 

Dean watches, uncomprehending as Castiel’s hands move to his tie, tugging it over his head and ruffling his hair as it goes. “Do you trust me?” he asks softly, gently, his tone so far removed from the menacing being that killed four demons- _and possibly four humans_ \- less than an hour ago. He hesitates, uncertain of what Castiel is asking, what he might be offering, but the angel’s gaze is fixed on Dean and he can’t seem to tear himself away, drowning in twin blue pools of peace, warmth and compassion. He nods slowly. 

“Good.” 

Castiel climbs onto the couch, and Dean freezes as he places his knees either side of Dean’s and straddles the elder Winchester. He presses his hands to Dean’s chest and pushes the hunter almost roughly back into the couch, then trails them down to lift the hem of his t-shirt. 

“Cas-” 

“Trust me,” the angel murmurs, tugging the t-shirt up and over Dean’s head, then following suit with his own shirt, messing his hair even further. 

Dean finds himself facing Castiel’s naked chest, the angel still watching him with that impossibly comforting gaze, and as Castiel brings his hands to Dean’s chest- tracing the hard edges of muscle as though he wants to soothe out every ache and pain Dean has ever felt- resistance seems like such a pointless idea. 

After a moment’s hesitation Dean lifts one hand, tentatively touching the angel. Castiel’s skin is pale and cool, and flawlessly smooth, no sign of scarring from the gunshot and knife wounds Dean and Bobby had once inflicted. He feels muscles flexing beneath his fingertips as Castiel leans down, and this time Dean rises to meet his kiss, fear and doubt melting away, his resistance fading under the angel’s touch. 

Castiel rocks slowly forward as he kisses Dean, fitting their hips together and Dean can feel the angel’s half-hard cock pressing into his groin. For the first time he realises that he’s getting hard too, his jeans becoming uncomfortably tight over his growing erection. 

The angel smoothes his palms across Dean’s chest and stomach, his touch warm and steady as Dean moves beneath him, pressing closer. Castiel pulls back and Dean moans at the loss, then sucks in a breath when lips press against his neck, his collarbone, moving down to his chest. Castiel’s tongue darts out and circles one of his nipples before taking it between his teeth and teasing it gently, biting down and then licking the sting away. 

Dean groans softly, running his hands up into his partner’s hair and twisting it between his fingers. The angel’s breath is surprisingly cool against his skin as he continues his exploration of Dean’s chest, moving steadily down until he’s sliding off the couch to kneel before the hunter. He examines Dean’s form as though he is committing it to memory, as his hands drop to Dean’s waist, tugging at his belt, undoing the buckle and moving on to the button of his jeans. 

Dean is pretty sure he should be saying something about this, protesting, questioning, hell, even encouraging, but he can’t seem to find his voice as Castiel hooks his fingers into the waistband of his jeans and pulls down. Dean arches his hips up slightly so his partner can slip the offending clothing off, only realising at the last moment that the angel has managed to take his boxers at the same time. 

“Whoa, hey-” he starts, not entirely sure if he is about to protest his own lack of clothing or Castiel not meeting the current dress code. 

Castiel looks up at him, flattening his hands on Dean’s bare thighs and tilting his head in a manner that is suddenly the most annoyingly endearing thing Dean has ever seen. 

“Um, what about Sam?” Dean breathes out as he fights to maintain his focus, belatedly realising that his brother could wake up at any second and catch them doing whatever the hell it is they’re about to do. 

“Sleeping,” Castiel replies softly. “He will not wake.” 

Dean thinks there’s something a little wrong about that, about Castiel somehow forcing his brother to sleep- or possibly about getting fresh with an angel while Sam is in the same room- but he’s not about to begrudge his little brother some much needed rest, and besides, there are far more pressing issues at hand. Or at least there will be if Castiel would only move his hand from where it now rests, tantalisingly close to Dean’s groin. 

He huffs out a short breath and shuts his eyes to avoid the angel’s expression. There are issues, questions that need to be resolved before they do this, and not even Castiel’s confused puppy look will deter him. 

“Are you sure this is… what about your vessel?” 

“He has long since moved on.” Relief washes over Dean, followed inevitably by further doubt. 

“You know, I’ve never… I mean, I’m not-” 

“Why should that matter?” his partner interrupts smoothly. 

“Well hell, have _you_ ever….?” 

Castiel’s brow furrows, and he frowns as though this is a question that merits deep consideration. 

“I have walked among your kind for thousands of years. Do you think I have learned nothing along the way?” he replies slowly. 

Dean gapes at the angel, stunned, confused, terrified as it dawns on him just how _inhuman_ Castiel is, and incredibly aroused at the same time. He wants to press the matter, to question him further, but Castiel hushes him with a kiss and any further argument melts away as a warm hand wraps around his semi-hard dick. He shuts his eyes and tilts his head back, neck and shoulders arching gracefully as he sucks in a deep breath. Sparks of pleasure dance through him from his fingertips to his toes and he moans into the angel’s mouth. 

Castiel begins to slide his fist up and down agonisingly slowly as he leans forward. Dean feels cool breath tickling against his cheek as the angel brings his mouth to Dean’s ear. 

“Open your eyes,” he orders softly. “Look at me.” 

Dean doesn’t hesitate to obey, finding Castiel’s wide blue eyes just inches from his own, gazing at him as though he is all that matters in the world. His skin prickles with satisfaction, even as doubts begin to whisper in the back of his mind- _you don’t deserve this, don’t deserve to feel this good_ \- but Castiel brings his free hand back up to Dean’s neck and pulls him forward, kissing him deeply as though he can drain away all of Dean’s doubts and fears. 

The angel pulls his hand away from Dean’s groin, sliding down his body, and Dean knows what’s coming next. 

He sits up slightly to take in the sight before him, Castiel kneeling between his bare thighs, muscles in his back and arms flexing, shoulders tensing as he shifts into position, and his expression is so intense and utterly focused on the task at hand that Dean shivers with anticipation. Castiel lowers his head, and a wet, pink tongue darts out to circle the tip of Dean’s cock. 

Dean’s shoulders shake as he tries to hold himself upright, but then his partner licks a line up the underside of his shaft and he gives up, falling back against the couch with a loud groan, arching his back and fighting to keep from bucking his hips when Castiel’s mouth closes over him, gloriously hot and wet. 

The angel goes to work, licking and sucking at his cock, teasing the sensitive head and running his tongue along the entire length. He swallows him down so far that Dean can’t help but thrust his hips forward in response, and Castiel just takes it, takes all of it and more. Dean can feel all the usual sensations of pleasure mixing with the ecstatic realisation that this is an angel- _a freaking angel of the Lord_ \- that seems to find Dean deserving of this attention, of such sheer unadulterated pleasure. He can’t begin to imagine how he could possibly deserve something as amazing as this, but all the questions of how and why become a hazy echo in the back of his mind as he twists and writhes beneath the angel’s expert grip, giving himself over to the pure bliss of the moment. 

He feels the heat pooling in his groin, his orgasm building within him, and he wants it- _God he wants it_ \- but he isn’t ready for this to end, and Castiel is doing all the work here. He wants desperately to return the favour. For all his usual intensity and focus Dean hasn’t missed the moments when Castiel watches the humans around him as though he longs to understand how they feel, and he wants, _needs_ , to draw this out, to make it as enjoyable as possible. He wants Castiel to _feel_ everything, every touch, every breath, every moan. He wants to return this exhilarating gift. 

“Wait,” he gasps, pressing a hand to Castiel’s shoulder, and his partner stops immediately, blinking up at him and licking his lips in a way that almost shatters Dean’s resolve. “Not…not like this,” he pants, and the angel regards him for a second, before inclining his head slightly in acceptance. 

Castiel stands, moving back as far as he can in the space between the couch and the coffee table, and for one second Dean thinks perhaps he’s going to stop, but then he shifts his hands to his belt and unbuckles it, looking down as he carefully unbelts, unbuttons and unzips his pants. 

Dean swallows hard, his eyes inescapably fixed on Castiel’s groin as the angel deftly removes his pants and underwear before turning his gaze to Dean, seeming utterly unashamed of his nakedness. His dick is rock-hard and heavy between his legs and Dean licks his lips unconsciously, sending a silent, fervent prayer of thanks that Castiel is alone in his vessel, because he can think of a thousand and one things he wants to do to that body and he’s fairly certain the holy tax accountant wouldn’t have approved of a single one. 

Castiel leans forward, his gaze still totally focused on Dean, sliding his hands across Dean’s shoulders, and nudging him into a more comfortable position. 

The he returns to his former place on Dean’s lap, leaning down to kiss him again, and Dean can taste the salty tang of his own sweat and precome in the angel’s mouth. Their cocks rub together, creating a delicious friction, and now it’s Dean’s turn to study Castiel intently as his partner’s eyes flare wide open and he draws in a sharp breath. Smiling, Dean arches his hips forward to trap their erections together, and is rewarded with a moan from the angel, low and quiet, but a moan nonetheless. 

Castiel shifts in his lap and raises himself up over Dean. 

“Tell me how you feel,” he murmurs, his tone husky and raw. 

Dean has to struggle to form the words in his head let alone pass them along to his mouth, but after a moment he manages to formulate a response. 

“I feel good,” he moans, running his hands up his partner’s arms. “Fuck,” he hisses as one of Castiel’s hands drops back to wrap around his painfully hard dick. “That feels so fucking incredible.” 

“Good… you deserve this Dean,” he breathes. 

Dean stares up at him in wonder as the angel lifts his other hand and fits it onto the scar on his shoulder. Blue eyes lock onto green as Castiel slides down onto Dean. 

Dean has a brief second to appreciate the intensity of the concern and compassion in Castiel’s eyes before all conscious thought abandons him, swallowed up by a constant mantra of _sofuckingtightholyfuck_. He squeezes his eyes shut and focuses every fibre of his being on the incredible sensation of his cock in Castiel’s ass, a heat and pressure unlike anything he’s ever felt before. 

Castiel waits for Dean to open his eyes before moving again, lifting himself almost fully off Dean’s cock before sinking back down. Dean lets out a strangled groan and grips his partner’s hips tightly, feeling the muscles beneath his fingers straining and flexing as Castiel moves. He shifts his own hips and angles up into the angel, and this time it’s Castiel’s turn to let out a moan and close his eyes, pure pleasure etched on his features. 

The expression transforms him from the intense and intimidating warrior Dean is so used to, into something completely new. His face relaxes, all the lines smoothing away as a content sigh escapes his lips. Dean can only stare, amazed by the change and struck by how beautiful the angel truly is. More than anything he wants to see Castiel come undone, to witness that moment of ecstasy on the angel’s face. 

Stretching out a hand he wraps it around Castiel’s erection, pumping it slowly in time with his partner’s movements. A thin sheen of sweat glistens on the angel’s body, as he moves, muscles coiling and tensing and flexing, rippling beneath flawless skin in a manner that is nothing short of breathtaking. Dean has had plenty of chances to witness the powerful and intimidating aspects of Castiel’s angelic nature, but now he can see the utter beauty of perfection. Beads of sweat coalesce on his forehead and Dean reaches up without thinking, running his fingers through the moisture and pushing it into Castiel’s hairline. 

His partner lays his free hand on Dean’s wrist and stares down at him, and Dean can feel his skin tingling under Castiel’s touch. The angel tracks his fingers down Dean’s arm, over his shoulder, chest, stomach, waist, hips, and everywhere he touches, Dean’s skin practically hums. He wonders if there is any actual angel mojo involved or if it’s just the intense waves of pleasure crashing through him as Castiel continues to fuck him relentlessly. 

Either way, he can’t resist curling a hand around his partner’s neck and tugging him down for another kiss, not thinking about the consequences the movement will have on his cock inside Castiel until the angel utters a cry and tightens his grip on Dean’s shoulder, pulling the hunter upright and pressing their bodies flush together. 

Dean’s body is on fire, practically singing at the contact as they press together, sweat-slicked skin on skin. He tries to mould himself to Castiel’s body, to merge with the angel, because he _needs_ this, like a drowning man needs air, so desperate to have something to hold onto, something that will hold onto him in return. He reaffirms his grip on Castiel’s dick as the angel fucks down harder, more urgently, riding Dean’s cock with powerful twists of his hips that leave Dean trembling and on the verge of breaking. 

He digs his fingers into Castiel’s back, trying to hold on, but the angel drops his mouth to Dean’s ear and growls “let go Dean,” and his voice is so raw, and so goddamn sexy that Dean can’t help but comply. He comes with a cry of unrestrained pleasure, hips jerking uncontrollably as he releases everything he has into his partner. 

He forces himself to keep his eyes open and fixed on his partner’s face as Castiel follows a moment later, throwing his head back and crying out in a language Dean doesn’t recognise as he pumps his release over Dean’s hand. Pure joy is written across the angel’s features, he arches his back and shoulders, the muscles taut and shaking as he breathes Dean’s name like a prayer, and Dean is struck with the realisation that this is the closest he will ever come to seeing Castiel’s true form. In that moment it’s impossible to mistake Castiel for a mortal man; the angel is heartbreakingly beautiful. 

Angel and man collapse back against the couch, both panting softly, trembling from exertion and sticky with semen and sweat. Dean allows his eyes to drift shut, feeling warm and sated and truly content, for the first time in months. His head is pleasantly fuzzy, filled with sensations rather than conscious thought as sleep beckons.

*****

He awakens sometime later to the feeling of a warm body pressed to his back, and the chill night air on his front. 

He shivers and sits up, rubbing a hand across his face and through his hair. Beside him Castiel is sleeping, his face utterly peaceful and innocent. He looks truly angelic, almost like the being of love that most people would believe him to be. 

Dean is stunned to realise that there is no sign of the night’s activities on either of them. His hands and stomach and dick are clean of semen, he is not coated in sweat, and the angel’s skin is cool, clean and dry, even his hair seems to have reverted to its usual state of being immaculately dishevelled. 

He catches himself wanting to run his fingers through the hair to return it to its previous post-sex state, then feels a twinge of shame at the thought. What was it about him that he felt the need to corrupt every beautiful thing he touched? 

He shivers again and looks around the room. Sam is still sleeping, blissfully unaware of everything that has happened since he passed out. He searches for his clothes, only a little surprised to find that they have been folded neatly and placed on the coffee table. Has Castiel done all this? Tidied their mess, cleaned him up while he slept? It would make sense he supposes, he’d taken what he wanted and fallen asleep, leaving his partner to deal with the aftermath. Typical Dean Winchester. He doesn’t deserve to be so taken care of. 

All the guilt and shame and fear comes crashing back with that thought, and he buries his face in his hands, shaking badly as waves of self-loathing rip through him. 

“Dean.” 

He feels the couch dip behind him as Castiel sits up, doesn‘t even bother to question how the angel knew to wake up the moment he started to feel bad. Castiel is always so intent, so utterly focused on him that it doesn’t really surprise him, but he can’t figure out why. What could an angel possibly see in his broken soul? The angel in question leans forward, pressing his chest to Dean’s back and Dean flinches. A hand turns his head to the side and Castiel leans over his shoulder, kissing him softly and slotting his other hand back into place over the scar. 

“Go back to sleep,” the angel murmurs against his lips. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers helplessly. 

“For what?” Castiel presses kisses down Dean’s neck and shoulder and he closes his eyes, savouring each touch of warm lips to cold skin. 

“Everything.” Best to get it all out in one rather than dwelling on each shameful point. 

Castiel sighs, pulling Dean against him, cool breath ghosting over Dean’s ear as he speaks. 

“You are a good man Dean. Some day you _will_ come to believe that.” 

Dean can’t see how, won’t let himself accept that, but he nods mutely and allows Castiel to pull him back down and cover them both with a blanket. He knows it will only be a matter of time before Castiel realises Dean is beyond fixing and gives up, but for now Dean allows himself to sink into the warmth of an angel’s embrace and forget.

**Author's Note:**

> NGL, I'm a little embarrassed by this fic now, but it's a thing I wrote, so I'm archiving it.


End file.
